Every Greaser Has A Story
by ymasp
Summary: Curly get's jumped and it's up to Tim to sort him out, as always.


_(Curly POV)_

Every Greaser has a story that could break your heart. We lose, we get hurt and everything comes apart. That's why it's so hard to stay on the straight andnarrow path of being good.

Curly was tall and somewhat tough, able to fight his own battles. He'd been in a fair few fights in his fifteen years but not once had he lost his dignity, even if he lost the fight itself. The gang, well, his brothers gang disregarded him completely. If he was brutally honest, he only hasn't been kicked out of the gang because Tim feels he can dump the blame on him for things that went wrong. Take two weeks ago for instance, Tim's second hand man Alex got two of his teeth knocked out when me and him got jumped in an alleyway. Somehow they had the nerve to tell me that it was my lack of fighting skills that let both of us down. The bunch of condescending bastards.

Curly paced quickly down the street, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets from the cold as his mind wandered elsewhere. The city streets were barren - only a handful of tired and desolate people appeared and disappeared around him, as eager to get someplace warm as he was. He was watching the dark alleys when he heard footsteps pattering along the sidewalk behind him. He felt someone bump into him and move past.

"Watch where you're fuckin' goin', jackass." I snarled at the back of the guy wearing a baseball jacket. Even from the back I could tell that him and his friends were Soc's. I sure was in for a ride.

Then all of a sudden the taller guy turned, reaching out to grab me by the elbow. "What the fuck - " Curly started . Then without even seeing the blade he felt an explosion of pain in his side. Time slowed to a crawl as he glanced down to see the silver blade carve its way inside him, digging deeper as a crimson blush spread across his white shirt.

Curly gagged, tasting blood in his mouth as he hit the wall and slumped down to the ground. The man followed him down, his hand still clutching the knife, the knife still buried in Curly's side. He kicked out with every ounce of strength he could muster up, jarring the kid enough that he let go of the blade.

"It's better if you don't fight, one less no good hood on the streets has gotta be a good thing," said the Soc as he moved back over him. Curly swung out again, connecting with his attacker's jaw. It connected with a satisfying crack and he saw the man beginning to move away as a hard fist connected with his nose, he felt the blood running down his face immediately. Despite being half collapsed to the floor he felt himself slouch impossibly more. Being beaten up is one of the worst feelings in the world, I think. The adrenalin can make you feel acutely conscious of your own body, each punch or kick, you feel like you can sense each individual cell and blood vessel bruising or bursting, each nerve ending blasting out electric shocks and chemical responses. You can hear and feel your heart beating in your ears, and your vision becomes tunnelled. You see the face or the masked face of your attacker as though you're viewing it through a telescope, and you also notice other sensations that you haven't experienced before. Maybe you see or smell the sidewalk close up, the sour smell of the pigeon droppings, the unevenness or the beauty of the stones in the asphalt.

The punches and kicks came more vigorously now, to the point where he couldn't really feel the pain which was a good thing because he was sure he'd be in agony if he could.

So I lay there, staring up to the cloudless sky as the hard kicks continued to be thrown at my torso, I couldn't feel a thing. Man, if I knew I'd be dying tonight I would have worn my better jeans. Tim would be pissed at me if he was here, not even trying to fight back or get up is what he'd think. But if I could have gotten up I would have.

I tried to laugh at that but ended up coughing up blood. In my final minutes I'm worrying about what Tim would think. Ponyboy told me a few weeks ago that I should stop trying to impress Tim and do what I want to do. Man, I wish I had listened with both ears instead of one.

Xxx

_(Tim POV)_

"Where was I?" Pete slurred from the six pints of beer. "An English man, Irishman and a Scottishman are sitting in a pub full of people. The Englishman says-" He continued, swaying on his chair.

"You've told this fuckin' joke four times tonight, Pete!" Tim said loudly, feeling the effects of alcohol starting to kick in.

"Shut up Shepard!" Pete retaliated, causing laughter to spread all over Buck's bar. A guy from the Brumly boys came smashing through the doors of the bar, silencing the entire room. If Tim hadn't had beer goggles on he'd have quickly recognized him as Evan Nelson, the guy he had maths class with when he still went to school.

"Tim? You gotta come with me, man." He spluttered out quickly, out of breath from running a few blocks to Buck's. Tim sneered and ran a hand through his greased hair.

"I ain't gotta do nothing," Chuckled Tim but the guy looked desperate, he was panting and he had blood soaked into his blue jeans.

"Tim, I'm not fuckin' joking around! Your brothers lay half dead on the pavement out there and if you don't stop being such an arrogant prick he's gonna fuckin' die!" Evan shouted. Tim immediately felt sober as he stood up quickly and followed Even outside. From their place Tim could see a figure lay slumped up a wall in a puddle of supposedly his own blood.

"Fuckin' hell." Tim muttered as he dropped to his knees next to his little brother. It was dark so he couldn't see real well but he could tell it was bad this time. Curly's had his ass handed to him so many times its almost normal picking him up off the floor and taking him home. But this, this was worse than before. His face was whiter than it should be and there was blood fucking everywhere. I was sober now, I couldn't possibly feel this awful if I was drunk.

"Curly?" He whispered but got no response. Tim damn well was grateful that it was only him and Evan around now, he looked like a fuckin' pansy. He brushed a stray lock of hair that fell over Curly's forehead, the grease must have worn off. Tim started to try and see how bad he was hurt when Curly moaned.

"Curly? You need to wake up buddy," I soothed. At this point I honestly didn't care what I looked like, he's my little brother. Curly's eyes opened to reveal almost identical eyes to me, I never really noticed how much we looked like eachother.

"Tim?" He slurred quietly, eyes starting to close again. I lightly slapped him on the cheek to keep him awake, the last thing I need is him passing out. I'm not keen on the idea of carrying him to hospital at 1 in the morning.

"Stay awake, kid. You've gotta stay awake." I told him sternly, he seemed to be completely out of it which was fucking spectacular.

"What?"

"Stay awake." I repeated.

"What," He mumbled, this really wasn't good. No, it wasn't good at all. There was a lot of blood under him, he seemed to be clutching his left side so I gently pulled his arm away to feel a warm patch on his denim jacket.

"Fuck!" I shouted loud enough that Evan jumped back from his spot kneeling next to me. "Call a fucking ambulance!" I shouted again, slightly quieter this time. Evan ran to the nearest phonebox and dialled 911. I took off my leather jacket and laid it over Curly's shoulders, he was really cold. Too cold, even.

"Hey, hey Curly?" I said quickly, "You're gonna be okay, kid. I just need to put pressure on the wound, okay?" It wasn't really a question, I covered the stab wound with my hand to stop the bleeding temporarily, hoping to whatever God I could think of that it wasn't internal as well. Curly let out a whimper of pain, trying to resist my hand. His breathing picked up and he was shaking either from pain or coldness, maybe both. So I cupped the back of his head with my free hand and made him look at me.

"You're gonna calm yourself down, and help me put pressure on this until the ambulance gets here." I told him, subconsciously stroking my thumb up and down soothingly.

"Mmm kay," He smiled with blood stained teeth and a split lip. He was getting more and more drowsy by the minute and there wasn't a single thing I could do to stop it. To my surprise, he cooperated by pushing down on top of my hand to stop the blood from coming out as fast.

"Atta boy," I praised.

"M'sorry Tim…" He started slurring again and released the pressure he was putting on my hand.

"What for?" I asked "And keep pushing on my hand, Curly."

"Gettin' busted up…" He slurred even more, it was hardly understandable but I got what he was trying to say.

"Kid, don't apologise. It ain't your fault some Soc went all psycho on you, is it?" I lightly joked but to no avail. He got it stuck in his head that its always his fault when he gets hurt or loses a fight and I guess its my job to get it out of his head. Luckily, the ambulance came round the corner blasting the loud sirens. Curly pulled a disgruntled face and groaned.

"S'loud…" He whined.

"It's alright now, Curly. I'm here now." I soothed as the paramedic came out of the van.

Curly smiled another blood filled smile before being bombarded with paramedics. Evan patted my shoulder and nodded approvingly.

"You did good there, Timmy." He teased.

"Don't call me that," I dodged his arm and laughed a little.

"You're a pretty good brother, y'know,"

"Tell me about it."


End file.
